


Al, I'm Only Dancing

by jdrush



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Humor, Kinda, M/M, Missing Scene, a bit of angst, a bit of holographic sex, dance off bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: The missing scene from "Private Dancer" that NBC couldn't get past the censors.  Sam needs some help 'shaking his bootie', and Al comes through big time
Relationships: Sam Beckett/Al Calavicci
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Al, I'm Only Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Donald Bellisauris, NBC, Bellisauris Productions, and MCA/Universal.  
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm slowly posting some of my old stories to AO3. This one was originally published in the zine "Wham Bam Thank You Sam #6", May, 2002. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic. All mistakes are mine.

Sometimes, a leap really gets under your skin, and this was one of them. Yeah, I was trapped in the 70's . . . again . . . and stuck in the body of a Chippendale's dancer, but those were the least of my problems.  
  
Poor Diana Quina. She was so sweet, well, once you got to know her. But who could blame her for being so suspicious, so angry, so scared? This world is a hard place for someone who was 'normal' – being deaf must make it exceptionally difficult to function.  
  
I tried, but I couldn't imagine her life. You can sit in a room, with everything shut off, and put cotton in your ears, but your deafness would only be temporary. You couldn't really know what it was like, not to understand or be able to communicate with others – I learned that when she 'yelled' at me today in her language. I was lost, confused, frustrated . . . and she had to live with that every hour of every day.  
  
I wanted to help this one, a lot. Still, I couldn't believe Al and Ziggy that I was just there to get her back to the Cheyanne School for the Deaf so she could graduate. I mean, I knew school and education were important – hell, they were my life – but how was all that really going to help Diana? She'd still be a deaf person in a hearing world, but the only difference would be she'd have a high school diploma on her wall. She'd still have to find a way to make a living, right?  
  
That's why MY idea was so much better. Diana was so amazing, so talented, so graceful and elegant. She'd make a great dancer, and she wouldn't ever have to worry about stripping for that sleazebag Mario. If only she could pass Joanna Chapman's open-audition tomorrow. What was I saying? We had rehearsed half the night. There was no doubt in my mind she'd pass with flying colors.  
  
I, on the other hand, was a different story. Why did I ever promise Mario I'd stay on at his club for another gig? What if I haven't leaped out by then? He was expecting Rod The Bod, but I was just Sam the Sham. That embarrassed, shy boy act I did last night was not going to fly more than once. What was I going to do? I was a pretty good dancer in my own right, if I do say so myself, but there was no way I could strip down to my skivvies in public, and certainly not with all those screaming women around. Oh, boy, what did I ever get myself into?  
  
I headed into the bedroom, and started digging around in Rod's costume trunk, but I don't know why I even bothered. There was the Zorro one I had leaped into, which I had just thrown in a corner of the room, not caring to ever look at it again, and there was an Indian deal with a leather-fringed loincloth and feathered headdress. Underneath that was a pair of light blue breeches, a police man's shirt – with fake badge – mirrored sunglasses and a cop's hat. Tucked in the side was a white sailor's outfit, complete with Pop-eye hat. And when I uncovered the construction worker orange vest, hardhat and ripped jeans, I began to wonder if maybe Rod had gotten all his outfits at a Village People garage sale.  
  
I was just about to give up when I pulled down the strap in the cover of the trunk, and a different outfit dropped out – a black tux with a silver sequined vest and bow tie. Of all the choices, it was the least offensive, so I dug it out and got dressed. Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to admit, it wasn't such a bad choice – although I could have done without the G-string I wore underneath. That band of cloth wedged in my butt-crack was extremely uncomfortable. And I did feel a bit silly standing alone in my apartment wearing a tux. (Then again, not as half as silly as I was going to feel if I couldn't figure out how to do Rod's job convincingly.)  
  
Well, I had my costume, now I needed some music. I was dreading this even more than the clothes. I stepped into the living room and wandered over to the stereo – it was as bad as I expected. The record stand was filled with every 2-bit, one hit disco wonder who could warble along to a synthesized drum set. And the worst of them all – the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack – was already on the turntable, almost daring me to play it. Had I really stooped to this? I took a deep breath, and flipped the 'on' switch; I dropped the needle down at random, and in a matter of seconds, I remembered WHY I hated the 70's so much.  
  
I was supposed to dance to this crap? I could barely stand to listen to it, for Pete's sake! I stood stock still, trying to let the strains of "Night Fever" wash over me, and inspire me to do something other than throw up. I picked up the rhythm, and, focusing just on that, I let my body take over. After moving around for a couple of minutes, I started to feel comfortable, and decided to try actually removing my clothes to the music.  
  
First I tugged at the tie – nothing. Okay, no problem. I shrugged out of the coat, and began unbuttoning the shirt. I got so wrapped up in that activity, I forgot to dance. All righty, just start again. But I had forgotten about the vest until I tried to take the shirt off. I began to rapidly unbutton the vest and managed to wiggle out of it, but of course, I once again stopped dancing. And everything was taking too long. By the time I undid all the buttons, yanked off the vest, pulled the shirt out of my pants and began to shrug it off, the song was almost done. At this rate, I'd need Wagner's Ring Trilogy to finish my act.  
  
Well, maybe the pants would be easier. Make that harder. Only once I got them unhooked, and I tried to slide them off my legs did it occur to me that I'd never get them off while standing up. They were just too tight. It had taken me nearly five minutes to struggle into them, and I had to lie on the bed to zip them. How the hell could I get them off while dancing on stage?  
  
I threw my shirt back on and declared it a disaster. I just was not cut out to be a male stripper. Heck, I've probably done more erotic undressing when I take a shower at the gym. That's the exact moment when Al decided to make his appearance. "Hey ya', kid . . . whatcha doing?"  
  
"Oh, hi Al," I greeted him, a little embarrassed that he had caught me in the act. "I'm just practicing."  
  
"Practicing what?"  
  
I blushed. I couldn't help it. "You know, stripping." The last word came out as little more than a whisper.  
  
He stared at me in disbelief. "Can I ask WHY you're practicing to be a stripper at this time of night?"  
  
"Well, I told Mario I'd cancel my next gig and dance for him, if he promised to keep his hands off Diana," I explained. "Knowing God's sense of humor, He'll probably keep me here until I do the show. And speaking of time, what are YOU doing here this late?"  
  
"Hey, it's only late here," he corrected me. "Back at the Project, it's just after dinnertime. Just thought I'd check in on you, make sure you were okay."  
  
"I'm fine, except I don't have a clue what I'm doing, that's all."  
  
"You've got nothing to worry about, Sam. I've seen you cut a lot of rugs . . . you're a great dancer."  
  
I shook my head woefully. "Dancing is not the problem, Al."  
  
"It is if you're trying to dance to THAT music."  
  
I was confused. "I thought you liked disco music?" (Though God only knew why.)  
  
"Yeah, I do."  
  
"Then what's wrong with it? Won't it go over well with a 1979 crowd?"  
  
"Sure it will, but you'll never get anywhere with that song. It's not funky enough."  
  
"I have to be funky?"  
  
"Of course you have to be funky," he explained, patiently. "You Should Be Dancing."  
  
"That's what I'm trying to do, remember, Al?"  
  
"Stop being a smart-ass." He consulted Ziggy for a couple of seconds. "Fourth track on side three. It's got a better beat."  
  
"You programmed Ziggy with the song list from _Saturday Night Fever_?" I asked, dismayed. Just what was he doing to my baby in my absence?  
  
"Hey, it wasn't my idea, pal," he responded, defensively. "She got all wrapped up in that nostalgia craze a while back. Hell, she probably woulda been wearing the polyester bell-bottoms and platform shoes, if she could've."  
  
"Wonderful," I groused, as I went over to the record rack and pulled out the second album. "So, how do you know this is the right song for me, anyway?"  
  
"What can I say? It's got a good beat and you can dance to it."  
  
I asked, sardonically, "Let me guess – you were a Chippendale's dancer, too?" I was starting to believe there wasn't ANYTHING that Al hadn't done in his lifetime.  
  
He just fixed me with that stare of his that tells me I'm walking on thin ice. "No, but who has seen more bump and grind shows than me?"  
  
"If only one tenth of your stories are true, no one I can think of," I responded, honestly. "But isn't a male strip show different than the ones you've seen?"  
  
"Nah, men, women . . . it's all the same. You just gotta have the right attitude. You're hot, you KNOW you're hot, and you know that everyone watching you wants to jump your bones. Simple. Now, finish dressing there. By the way, great outfit . . . can I borrow it sometime?"  
  
"Sure, not problem. It's probably hanging in some vintage clothing store in the Village by now," I told him, sarcastically. "Besides, it doesn't matter if it's great or not – it's no use. I already tried it out a couple of times, but I can't get out of these damn clothes while I'm moving about."  
  
He leered, "I don't think I've ever had that problem, especially not with hundreds of beautiful women screaming my name."  
  
"I'm not in the mood for your fantasies now, Al," I told him, disgustedly. "I mean, these pants fit tighter than a second skin . . . I'll never get them off." I contemplated the situation for a moment, then mumbled to myself, "Maybe I'd be better off with the loincloth and headdress."  
  
His eyebrow shot up – I'd have to learn to mumble more quietly. "Now there's something I'd pay good money to see," he joked.  
  
"Not funny, Al. What am I going to do?" I whined.  
  
"Stop whining, Sam, I hate when you whine." He waved his hand at me, "Look, you don't have to worry about stripping off the pants – they've got Velcro stitched into the seams. They're rip-aways."  
  
I tested the waistband to see if Al was right, and he was – the seam tore easily into two. "And is the shirt the same?"  
  
"Yeah, how do you think they yank them off so fast?"  
  
"Don't know – I couldn't get my bow-tie off to . . . ."  
  
"Oh, no – the bow-tie stays on," he interrupted. "It's the Chippendale's trademark, like the Playboy bunny-ears and cotton tail."  
  
"You should know," I responded, derisively.  
  
"Don't worry about it . . . the shirt should strip off around it."  
  
"Should?" I asked nervously. "And what if it doesn't?"  
  
He shrugged his shoulders, "Best case scenario – you'll embarrass yourself royally. Worse case, you'll hang yourself on stage."  
  
"Great," I muttered. "Just great. What an obituary THAT'LL make."  
  
He motioned me with his hands to speed it up. "C'mon, just finish dressing, put on that song and show me your act."  
  
"You're going to teach me how to strip?" I asked incredulously.  
  
"Hey, if you can't do it for your best friend, how're you going to do it in front of a bunch of sex-starved women, all yelling and screaming and wanting to rip the clothes off your back and . . .?"  
  
"I told you, I don't want to hear about your fantasies." But what choice did I have? I needed help and Al was offering some. Whenever I had a crisis, no matter how small, it always seemed Al was there for me.  
  
I changed the record to the song he suggested, while he 'sat' himself on the couch. As soon as the music started, I understood what my partner was talking about – the driving bass and quick 4/4 tempo made it a much better choice than the one I had tried before.  
  
"Can't you crank it up a little bit?" he complained. "It'll help get you into the mood."  
  
"Al, it's 1:30 in the morning here. The neighbors will kill me."  
  
"Sammy, this is New York City . . . they won't even notice."  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Okay, don't get snippy."  
  
_**"My baby moves at midnight,**_  
 _ **Goes right on till the dawn,**_  
 _ **My woman takes me higher,**_  
 _ **My woman keeps me warm . . . ." 1**_  
  
I took a couple of moments to let the music take hold, and then I started to move. I closed my eyes, and in my mind, I could see John Travolta dancing to this song, and tried to duplicate some of his moves. (Would someone please explain why I could remember things I didn't want to, like scenes from this movie, but couldn't remember the really important things, like why my own retrieval program wouldn't work? Damn Swiss-cheese brain!) When I started feeling comfortable with the rhythm, I started to remove the jacket.  
  
"You should be dancing, yeah . . . .  
Dancing, yeah . . . ." 1  
  
"Okay, Sam, that's good," Al cut in. "Go a bit slower, taunt them a bit more. One shoulder, now the other. Good. Now, put it back on."  
  
"Put it back on?" I asked, puzzled. "I thought the object was to get my clothes OFF?"  
  
"It is, but always remember it's a strip TEASE. Make them think they're going to get what they want, then take it away from them. It drives them crazy!"  
  
"All right, Al . . . you're the expert." So I put the coat back on, did a few spins, and started taking it off again.  
  
_**"She's juicy and she's trouble,**_  
 _ **She gets it to me good,**_  
 _ **My woman gives me power,**_  
 _ **Goes right down to my blood." 1**_  
  
_Did someone actually WRITE these lyrics?_ I thought idly to myself. Certainly would never be mistaken for Rogers and Hammerstein, or even Andrew Lloyd Weber.

Al cut into my thoughts with an encouraging, "Good, Sammy, now you got it. Turn your back on them, let it slide down a bit, now, look over your shoulder at them, and give them your bedroom eyes."  
  
"Do I have bedroom eyes?" I asked, innocently.  
  
"'Course you do . . . EVERYONE'S got bedroom eyes. Just flash 'em, and give kind of a knowing grin, like if you wanted to take them to bed, you could and they'd be powerless to stop you."  
  
"Okay, if you say so." So I flashed what I thought might be my 'bedroom eyes' and gave Al a Mona Lisa kind of smirk – and I heard a quick intake of breath.  
  
"Oh, yeah, Sam – that's the one. That's perfect. Now, you've got them interested . . . off with the coat."  
  
I shimmied out of the jacket, and contemplated tossing it in the air, but at the last second, just let it slip out of my hand, and puddle on the floor.  
  
_**"You should be dancing, yeah . . . .**_  
 _ **Dancing, yeah . . . ." 1**_  
  
"That's wonderful, Sam," my 'instructor' informed me. "Very different. Subtle. Classy. Now, start unbuttoning the vest, slowly. Slowly. One at a time. Tease 'em. And don't forget to shake those hips."  
  
"Hey, this isn't so bad," I hated to admit. "It's kinda fun, actually."  
  
"Yeah, that's what you said the first time."  
  
I stopped in my tracks. "Huh? I said WHAT?"  
  
"Sue. That's what SUE said. And don't stop dancing, no matter what." So I started moving again as he continued, "She didn't think she'd like it either the first time. After that, well, I could barely keep her clothes on."  
  
"You have your girlfriends strip for you?" I asked, as I slid out of the vest, and let gravity take it from my fingers; it fell beside the coat on the floor.  
  
"Only when it's their idea first."  
  
I shook my head affectionately, "You're a pervert, you know that, Al?"  
  
"Yeah, but I'm a helpful pervert. Now, you gotta start on the shirt. Remember, one button at a time. It ain't a race. Get 'em all hot and bothered. Flash some skin. Good, good, now, cover it back up. Always tease them, keep them coming back for more. All right, the shirt's undone. Do the same as with the jacket. A little off the shoulder, give 'em that 'come on' look again. Dammit, Sam, you're a natural, you know that? Okay, pull it open wide and show 'em you chest, aww, yeah, nice chest, Sam. Now, close up the shirt, like you changed your mind."  
  
"What if I HAVE changed my mind?" I queried.  
  
"Shut up and keep dancing! Mix in some pelvic thrusts, like that guy in the movie did."  
  
"Travolta," I supplied his name.  
  
"Yeah, him. And do that pointing finger thing, you know . . . ."  
  
"NO!" I put my foot down. "I draw the line right there." I'll do just about anything to complete a leap, but even I have my limits.  
  
"Fine, have it your way, but I think it's a mistake. Okay, you're doing great, Sammy. Man, too bad they don't do pole dancing yet – you'd knock 'em dead!! All right, give them some hip action. Now, lick your lips – makes 'em look wet and inviting under the spotlights. And throw them a 'come-hither' look – yeah, THAT one! Aww, they are just gonna eat this up! Okay, the moment of truth . . . OFF WITH THE SHIRT! And don't hold back this time!"  
  
I did as commanded. I yanked the shirt off and low and behold, I didn't strangle myself with the necktie. I whipped the shirt around over my head and threw it as far as I could – at the club, it probably would've gone about six rows deep. I gave Al a shit-eating grin, "How'd I do?"  
  
"Ahh, Sam, I think you just found yourself a new profession!" The song had ended, and I danced on into the next track. Oh, well, it was only a practice. I'd tighten it up if I needed to, or maybe Mario would have the extended dance version I could borrow. Or maybe I'd luck out and be miles away from this leap when that moment came. (Yeah, right, like THAT would happen!) For now, I still had one last item to discard.  
  
"Okay, Sammy, this is what they all came for, so you gotta make it count. Move those hips around, work it, let 'em know what a stud you are. Strut around a bit like you own the place. That's it, kid. You're doing great. Now, stroke yourself."  
  
"STROKE MYSELF?!" I squeaked.  
  
"You know, caress yourself. Run your hands over your chest and over your nipples, you know, excite yourself. Slowly, bring them lower, lower – good, that's it. Yeah, drive yourself wild. Now, do a Madonna grab."  
  
"A WHAT?!" Something told me I didn't want to know.  
  
"Grab your crotch," Al explained. "Real quick – and throw your head back in ecstasy. Aww shit, they're in an absolute frenzy now, Sam. They want to rip off every stitch of yer clothing off with their teeth. They want your body. You're their living fantasy, Sam – they're going completely berserk. Give 'em what they want, kid – off with the pants, whip 'em around your head and – toss them away! Oh, God, Sammy, that's the way you used to do it!"  
  
I was so wrapped up in the surreal scene of ripping my pants off with just a quick tug it took me a second to realize what Al had said. Ignoring his earlier command, I stopped dancing. Al went to reprimand me, but seemed to grasp his faux pas at the same moment I did. I stood there, clothed only in a sequined bow-tie, a black leather G-string and my white athletic socks, sweaty and out of breath, staring at my best friend. I was shocked to discover Al was aroused, his 'package' displayed prominently in his neon yellow pants. I had been so into my act, I didn't notice the effect my routine was having on him. "What did you mean by that?" I asked, cautiously.  
  
"Nothing," he mumbled. I've never seen Al move so fast. Before I was aware of what was happening, he had jumped to his feet, his fingers working to activate the door to the IC. When I came to my senses, the door was already open, and he was halfway out.  
  
"Wait, Al – STOP!" I didn't think my cry would work, but it did. He stood in place, his back to me, head hanging low, looking like a man walking his last mile. I stepped closer to him, and turned off the stereo. "Please don't go."  
  
He didn't turn to face me. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sam." But he made no move to leave.  
  
I grabbed the shirt off the couch and put it on – it was chilly standing there in just a G-string. "I think it is. I want to know what the hell was going on here tonight." I was amazed at how calm I was, considering the weird vibe in the room that I couldn't identify. "What did you mean that's the way I used to do it?" He didn't answer me, but hung his head even lower. I tried again, "You said I was a good dancer. Did I . . . ever dance for you?" This time I got a slight head nod from my observer, but he still refused to face me.  
  
"Al, please look at me?" At my gentle plea, he turned around and I could see the fear in his eyes. Something told me I didn't want to know, but the question was past my lips. "Like this?" He lowered his eyes, and nodded, guiltily. And even though I knew the answer, I asked it anyway, "I used to strip for you?"  
  
He looked back up to me, a small smile tugging at his lips, "Yeah, you used to do a great job with Tone Loc's 'Wild Thing'."  
  
"Why?" was all I could think to say.  
  
Al just looked down at his feet again and shrugged his shoulders, "Don't know . . . I guess it was the only rap song you ever liked."  
  
"That's not what I meant, Al."  
  
"I know," he replied contritely.  
  
I thought back to Al's Freudian slip. "Then I'M Sue?" He just nodded once more, even more penitently. I took a deep breath, and took the plunge, "Al . . . we're not friends, are we?"  
  
A hurt expression crossed his face, and he responded, softly, "Oh, Sammy, we've ALWAYS been friends."  
  
"But we're more than friends, aren't we?" I pressed. He looked back up at me, his dark brown eyes showing the torment this was causing him. Finally, he gave me a small, reluctant nod. Well, I had my answer, but I wanted, I NEEDED to know more. "How long have we been lovers?"  
  
"Sam, you know I can't tell you that," he began, using a tone of voice that said he had explained this a thousand times before. "The rules state that unless you remember something on your own I can't . . . ."  
  
"Forget the fucking rules, Al!!" I exploded, startling him into silence. Usually when I was desperate for news about my 'real' life, I'd beg or wheedle, or turn my puppy-dog eyes on him, but not this time. "I'm SICK of you using that line as an excuse not to answer me. This is my LIFE we're talking about. I just found out my observer, the man I thought was my best friend and partner, the man I trusted and respected and leaned on for support, the only link I have to my own time, has been lying to me for who knows how many years and is really my lover. I think I AT LEAST have a right to know how long we've been together." But even as I said it, it all started to make sense. Who else BUT someone's lover would go through everything that Al had been through?  
  
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. I knew I was asking him to break the rules we had set down together, but I had to know. Besides, it's not like he never did it before; and this time, it was something REALLY important. After a minute or two of arguing with himself, he sighed, "About eight years, until you leaped. Shortly after Donna left you and Maxie left me. I guess we figured we were zeros with women. Or maybe I just couldn't stay married because I loved you all along."  
  
The answer, while it startled me, filled me with a sense of serenity for some reason. I plopped down on the couch, letting it sink in. "You . . . loved me?" If I thought the rip-away pants were surreal, they were nothing compared to this conversation.  
  
He smiled tenderly, "Uh-huh, from the first moment I met you. I knew you were going to change my life and things would never be the same for me." His smile got broader, "And I was right." Oh boy, that smile was doing some pretty funny things to my insides.  
  
"You said we were together for eight before I leaped . . . how many years is it now?" I ventured.  
  
This time he shook his head. "Uh-uh, Sam. That's something I definitely can't tell you." His voice got sad and he added, "Let's just say, you've been gone too long."  
  
"Were we happy, Al?"  
  
"Awww, baby, happier than two people have a right to be."  
  
That confused me. "Then why did I do it? Why did I leap?"  
  
"I can't tell you that either, Sam."  
  
"I HATE that damn rule!" I cursed.  
  
He shook his head sadly, "The rule has nothing to do with it. I . . . I don't know why you leaped early. I keep hoping someday you'll remember so you can tell me!"  
  
"Oh Al, I'm sorry," I lamented.  
  
He snorted, "YOU'RE sorry? What the hell for? I'm the one who's been lying to you all this time."  
  
"Because you were following my rules. Because I left you behind, alone. Because . . . I forgot."  
  
"Hey, Sammy, don't eat yerself up. You've forgotten lots of things."  
  
"Nothing like THIS, Al," I sighed, ruefully.  
  
He put his hands out in supplication. "It really hasn't been so bad, kid. I get to see you almost everyday, talk to you, laugh with you, get to help you do all your good deeds . . . . I wouldn't miss this ride for the world." His tone turned reflective, "But, yeah, I do get lonely sometimes. I miss you."  
  
It got quiet in the room as I sat there, digesting all I had learned. I tried to remember, wanted to remember, and then something came to me. When it had happened, I brushed it off as just a bizarre dream, but now, after listening to Al, I had my doubts. "Al – I had a dream about you," I began quietly. "Of us. We were on a beach, making love." He inhaled sharply in surprise. Maybe it was a warning – I should have stopped, but once begun, I had to know. "There was this beautiful sunset, all red and orange and yellow and gold. The sand was snow white, and the water was sapphire blue. It was so perfect, almost TOO perfect," I recited, wistfully.  
  
"It WAS too perfect," he agreed, with a sad smile, confirming my dawning suspicions that it was more than a dream. "It was our honeymoon. The Bahamas." He let out a hardy laugh, "We barely got checked into the hotel when you grabbed my hand and dragged me down to the shore. You didn't care who saw us . . . it was the greatest two weeks of my life."  
  
"Our honeymoon?" I repeated to myself. The words struck a chord in me, but something wasn't quite right. "But what about Las Vegas?" the words out before I even knew where they came from.  
  
His eyes lit up. "You remember Vegas?" he asked, hopefully.  
  
I willed every brain cell I had to dredge up the memory fragment. "I . . . I don't know. There's something . . . I thought we had vacationed there . . . I can see a little church . . . ."  
  
"Yeah, The Hitching Post Wedding Chapel," he quickly filled in, with a grin.  
  
I felt like I had been punched in the gut. "Oh boy, that's when we got married, isn't it?" I squealed.  
  
He chortled, "If you can call it that."  
  
Oh God, everything started falling into place. "We were really drunk," I recalled.  
  
"Totally toasted," he concurred.  
  
The event just flooded back to me, enveloping me. "And the justice of the peace didn't want to perform the ceremony . . . ."  
  
Al smirked, "But we convinced him."  
  
I returned the smirk, "Convinced him, or bribed him?"  
  
"Take your pick!"  
  
I sniggered, "Five hundred dollars . . . ."  
  
"And comp points at The MGM Grand," he snorted.  
  
I frowned briefly, "He said it wouldn't be legal."  
  
"But we said we didn't care . . . we just wanted to be married."  
  
"Al . . .?" I whispered.  
  
"Yeah, babe?"  
  
The breath caught in my throat. "I . . . I remember." I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face, "I remember it all."  
  
His shoulders slumped a bit. "That's too bad, kid."  
  
I was stunned by his comment, "Why?"  
  
"I was kinda hoping it wouldn't come back."  
  
Whatever I was expecting him to say, that wasn't it. Now I was getting worried. "Why didn't you want me to know about us?"  
  
"'Cause I know how hard it is, to see you and not be able to touch you or comfort you. I was glad you were spared that heartache."  
  
I shook my head, "But I wasn't spared, Al. For a while now, there's been this . . . hole, here," and I hit my chest over my heart. "It's an ache, deep inside, an emptiness I couldn't name. When I'd see you, I'd be filled with a yearning, a longing." I felt the tears burning my eyes, "I thought it was because you represented home to me – but now I know it was just YOU all along."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me, kid?"  
  
I gave a nervous laugh, "Because I figured you'd kill me if you found out I had the hots for you. And all this time, you were suffering the same agony." I gazed into his face, older now than the day I married him, but just as handsome. I was afraid to ask, but I had to know, "After all these years apart, do you still feel the same way, Al? Do you still love me?"  
  
My friend murmured, "Aww, dearheart, until the end of time," and I felt the tears of joy, and relief, finally spill down my cheeks. He cleared his throat as he attempted to keep his own emotions under control. "Look, kid I've already told you far too much. I'm looking to get my ass in a sling, here. 'Sides, you got some practicing to do – and I've got some cold showers to take. I'll catch ya' tomorrow." He started for the IC door once more.  
  
I didn't want him to go yet, not after learning everything I just had. And I knew just the way to detain him a while longer. "Al, come back here. Lock the door."  
  
He gave me a puzzled look, "Why?"  
  
"I want to give you a private dance," I replied, with a sly smile.  
  
"Sammy, you don't have to do that," he insisted. "It'd be the equivalent of a mercy-fuck. I DO still have my pride."  
  
"You think I'm doing this just for you? No way, pal. I've missed you too, and I WANT you, Albert. Tonight."  
  
"But . . . ."  
  
"You like to watch, right?" I asked, coyly.  
  
He chuckled, lecherously, "Always have, always will."  
  
"Then have a seat, lover," I purred. If he was surprised by the sudden use of such an intimate pet name, he didn't show it. He did as I suggested, sitting Indian-style on the floor, watching me the whole time with those beautiful dark, dark eyes, as if trying to figure out what I was up to. "Is there anything special that you want me to dance to? Wanna have Ziggy fire up 'Wild Thing'?" I suggested, jokingly.  
  
He thought for a moment, then answered, quite seriously, "Well, actually, there is a song . . . you never danced to it, but, damn, whenever I hear it, it reminds me of you."  
  
I took a deep breath . . . you could feel the sexual tension in the air. I had just confessed my true feelings for Al, and he had just told me it wasn't simply fruitless pining and dreaming – we were lovers. And I was about to give my lover a special treat, something he apparently enjoyed immensely. I pulled off the shirt, until I was once more clothed in just bow tie and the soft leather G-string. "I'm ready, Al . . . tell Ziggy to go for it."  
  
But I was wrong – I was nowhere NEAR ready for the melodious blues that poured from Ziggy's handlink. Mournful and sad, filled with longing and hopelessness; I felt my heart break to think that this is how Al remembered me.  
  
_**"Used to be so easy to give my heart away,**_  
 _ **But I found out the hard way, there's a price you have to pay,**_  
 _ **I found out that love was no friend of mine,**_  
 _ **I should have known, time after time.**_  
  
 _ **So long, it was so long ago . . .**_  
 _ **but I've still got the blues for you." 2**_  
  
Where my first dance had been frantic, wild and out of control, this one was slow, deliberate, and sensual. Easily falling back into my routine, I ran my hands over every inch of my naked flesh as Al watched every move I made, his eyes half-closed, and a far-away dreamy expression on his face. I used all the tricks he had taught me, and a few he hadn't. I wanted to make this good for him, for me. If this was all we could have, I was going to make the best of it.  
  
"Al," I murmured. "Look at me."  
  
"As if I could take my eyes from you, babe," he chuckled.  
  
I smiled – if I had his undivided attention, then I decided to give him a real show. I slowly turned around and presented him with my naked butt. I let my hands slide down to cup and fondle each cheek as I threw him my 'bedroom eyes' over my shoulder; the low moan he gave sent chills down my spine. "Awww, Sammy, you always had the sweetest ass I've ever seen," his silken voice a caress of its own.  
  
_**"Used to be so easy to fall in love again,**_  
 _ **But I found out the hard way, it's a road that leads to pain,**_  
 _ **I found that love was more than just a game,**_  
 _ **You're playin' to win, but you lose just the same.**_  
  
 _ **So long, it was so long ago,**_  
 _ **but I've still got the blues for you." 2**_  
  
My hands encountered the small metal clasp that held my G-string on. With a flick of my finger, it was undone, and my last shred of clothing was on the floor. As I began to stroke myself, my friend's eyes almost bugged out of his head.  
  
"Jeez, Sam – you can't believe how hot you look in just that bow tie," he rasped. "I'm gonna buy you a dozen of them."  
  
I ran my tongue over my lips, wetting them for my friend; his short gasp told me he enjoyed it. I brought my hands up and over my body, canvassing my belly and chest. Licking one of my fingers, I rubbed it languidly against my right nipple, moaning in pleasure. My gaze fell back upon my partner, my lover; I know the lust in his eyes mirrored my own. "Join me, Al . . . you know you want to," I begged breathlessly. "Let me see you too, sweetheart."  
  
He nodded, and stretched his legs; he quickly undid his pants, and pushed them down over his hips to his knees. I gawked in fascination as his swollen cock popped into view.  
  
_**"So many years since I've seen your face,**_  
 _ **Here in my heart, there's an empty space,**_  
 _ **Where you used to be . . . ." 2**_  
  
He wrapped his right hand around himself as I took a step closer to him. He never took his eyes from me, as if trying to memorize every single moment for future reference, stroking his dick in a steady rhythm. I rocked back and forth sensually in front of him, my own rock-hard cock swaying with my movements, trying to control the pounding of my heart for this man.  


_**"Though the days come and go,**_  
 _ **there is one thing I know . . . .**_  
 _ **I still got the blues for you."2**_  
  
It was completely overwhelming. I sank to my knees, joining him on the floor. I let my hands skim down my body until they grasped my own hardness. Staring into his beautiful brown eyes, entranced by his handsome face now contorted in passion, I began to stroke myself.  
  
We were both pumping into our respective hands, both imagining it was really the other manipulating us, caressing us, controlling us, exciting us. In the now quiet room, all that could be heard was our heavy breathing, our moans and sighs, and the slip-sliding of flesh against flesh. The sweet, exquisite fire building within me was rapidly taking over my body, burning out of control.  
  
Getting brave, I reached out a hand and covered Al's as it moved up and down his hard-on, in effect, giving the appearance that I was jerking him off. He looked down at the hand, then back up to my face. He arched his back towards me and threw back his head, crying out, "Oh, Sammy . . ." as he came. I watched as he shot high splattering his hand and tummy.  
  
"Oh God, Al – I'm cumming!" I echoed, his actions driving me over the edge. I was thankful I had stripped off Rod's entire costume because he would have had a helluva dry cleaning issue. My orgasm was so strong, and drained me so much, I fell over backwards onto my ass. I just lay on the floor, trying to slow my racing heart and breathing. I finally managed to pant, "Al . . . is it always . . . oh, God . . . is it always that good?"  
  
"Well, it's even better when we're in the same decade." It was obvious from his labored speech he was just as wiped as I was.  
  
"Better than this?" I asked incredulously. Impossible. This was the best sex I could ever remember having. "GET ME HOME NOW!!!"  
  
Al chuckled. "We're doing our best."  
  
"Well, do better!" I only half-joked.  
  
"I will, now that I have an added incentive," he winked.  
  
"Al . . ." I hesitated, scared to continue, but knowing it had to be said. "I . . . I love you."  
  
He gave me a sad, sweet smile. "I know, baby. You didn't have to tell me." Gestating with his hand across my spent, naked form, he laughed, "I kinda figured that out on my own."  
  
"You'll wait for me?" I asked, uncertainly. I had no right to demand that of Al – who knew how long I'd be leaping around? But to know that this would be waiting for me when I got home would give me the strength to keep going.  
  
He crawled over to where I was and smiled down at me. "I told you, mi bello angelo," he purred. "Until the end of time." Then he leaned over my prone body, careful not to pass through me and shatter the illusion, and 'kissed' me. And even though we were separated by over two thousand miles and nearly twenty years, I could have sworn I felt the softness of his luscious lips, the warmth of his life's breath – I could 'feel' his chaste, tender, love-filled kiss.  
  
I swallowed over the lump in my throat as more tears threatened to fall. I watched as he dressed meticulously and collected himself. Much too soon, he was ready to go. He punched up the exit code, and the IC door opened before him. He turned and gave me one last sad smile. "I don't know if you'll remember tonight when you leap, Sam . . . but I'll never forget it." Then, to my amazement, he 'signed', "Thank you."  
  
The tears I was trying to keep at bay would be denied no longer. I didn't WANT to forget this night. I didn't want to forget me and Al again. I didn't want Al to leave. When my partner saw my tears, he said softly, "Hey, kid, don't cry. It'll be okay someday."  
  
"I don't want someday," I wailed. "I want now!"  
  
"Someday, sweetheart," he solemnly vowed, "I promise." He punched a couple of buttons on the handlink, frowned, and then punched in a couple more before he looked back to me. "Can you do something for me before you go to bed tonight, dearheart?" When I nodded, he said, "Play the second song on the first side . . . and think of me."  
  
Then he was gone.  
  
I continued to sit on the floor, trying to get my crying under control. It was so much to process in one night. Al was my lover . . . my heart soared at the notion. Al was my lover . . . my heart broke without him near me. After a half-hour or so, I was completely cried out. I stood up, my aching body protesting all the activity I had subjected it to throughout the day. A hot shower was looking like a great idea; a good night's sleep in a comfy bed was an even better one.  
  
As I headed towards the bedroom, I walked past the stereo. I was going to by-pass Al's request – there was always tomorrow – but he had specifically said to play it before I went to bed. I found the disc, powered up the player, and dropped the needle:  
  
_**"I know your eyes in the morning sun,**_  
 _ **I feel you touch me in the morning rain,**_  
 _ **And the moment that you wander far from me,**_  
 _ **I want to feel you in my arms again.**_  
 _ **And you come to me on a summer breeze,**_  
 _ **Keep me warm in your love, then you softly leave,**_  
 _ **And it's me you need to show . . . .**_  
  
 _ **How deep is your love,**_  
 _ **I really mean to learn,**_  
 _ **'Cause we're living in a world of fools**_  
 _ **Breaking us down when they all should let us be,**_  
 _ **We belong to you and me.**_  
  
 _ **I believe in you,**_  
 _ **You know the door to my very soul,**_  
 _ **You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour,**_  
 _ **You're my savior when I fall,**_  
 _ **And you may not think that I care for you,**_  
 _ **When you know down inside that I really do,**_  
 _ **And it's me you need to show . . . .**_  
 _ **How deep is your love." 3**_  
  
I smiled. Maybe disco wasn't so bad after all.  
  
**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> FOOTNOTES:  
> 1\. "You Should Be Dancing" by The Bee Gees. From the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, 1977. 
> 
> 2\. "Still Got The Blues" by Gary Moore. From the Virgin Album, Still Got The Blues, 1990. 
> 
> 3\. "How Deep Is Your Love" by The Bee Gees. From the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, 1977.  
> 


End file.
